


Caged Birds

by Willowanderer



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Emotions, Kissing, M/M, Porn What Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:49:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willowanderer/pseuds/Willowanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Truly, Altaïr felt, no man suffered more for pride than he. And it wasn't as if it were unfounded pride. And yet his mistake- and it was, he could admit in retrospect a great and terrible mistake that cost far too much for too many- had his wings clipped, and made him feel like a messenger bird, not the  hunting eagle he knew he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caged Birds

Truly, Altaïr felt, no man suffered more for pride than he. And it wasn't as if it were unfounded pride. And yet his mistake- and it was, he could admit in retrospect a great and terrible mistake that cost far too much for too many- had his wings clipped, and made him feel like a messenger bird, not the hunting eagle he knew he was.

 

And worse yet... he looked across the room, over folded hands, over boots crossed at the ankle into the the dimness where the man who had once been his friend worked without sparing him a glance. He had lost what friendship he had to it. It had been bad enough when he thought them dead- and he had thought them dead when he escaped from the Templars in Solomon's Temple- but the cold, bitter greetings cut deeper than the blade he was sure Malik would rather greet him with.

 

Not that he could blame him. Malik was another hawk put to work as a pigeon, and he would never shake it off. At times he seemed like worse than a pigeon, more of a hawk put in a song bird's cage and expected to sing. No, Altaïr understood why Malik's eyes were full of anger whenever they landed on him. When they did.

 

If it had _worked_ there would have been glory for them all, and he would have even shared it.

 

But it hadn't, and his pride was to blame- so he was told. It was hard to see it as a fault. He was good at what he did, through his efforts and natural inclination. There was no harm in pride in a well tended blade, or a well executed leap. They were not sworn to forsake pleasure in their skills and talents, any more than the allure of a dark eyes or curved lips. As long as he was resting and avoiding the oppressive noonday sun- as was everyone who had the option, though he had struck then before- there was no harm in contemplating things like that. Altaïr focused again on Malik- realizing that he had been staring past him for the last several moments as he thought.

“Is there something I can help you with, _novice?”_ He was inspecting the tip of his quill with an even more irritated than normal expression.

“Not particularly, I was merely thinking.”

“...” the dai gave a snort, as if that was completely unexpected. He went back to inspecting the tip of his quill, nabbing a scrap of much abused and ink spotted cloth between two fingers and expertly manipulating the feather's shaft so he could wipe the remaining ink from it for a better look. Altaïr was staring at him now, and the nimble dance of his fingers.

 

Would he have adjusted so well and so quickly in Malik's place? … No, chances were he would have taken a leap of faith without a place to land unless under orders not to- and perhaps even then. And yet he'd accepted the loss calmly enough- learning to do things that people did thoughtlessly with two hands with a single one- and with enough grace to make it look like a purposeful display of skill.

 

Hands, long fingered and callused were something to be admired. What a wonder they were, to be able to create, and kill at the owner's discretion.

 

Malik sorted through his quills one by one, scowling at each of them in turn. Selecting one he moved to dip it into the ink, then raised it back up to squint at irritability. He set it down taking out a small knife from somewhere on his person. He braced it against his palm, hooked in place with the littlest finger as his first two gripped the shaft of the feather, and his thumb braced against the back of the blade. Delicately he drew the shaft along the blade, which was thankfully sharp- but he apparently gave a bit too much of a shove with his thumb and the quill slipped. Altaïr watched the white tip dance as Malik re-settled it, to go through the entire process again. He caught his lower lip between his teeth in concentration, and Altaïr was sure that he had forgotten that he was there at all. He held himself quiet and silent as only a trained Assassin could to watch this.

 

It was oddly satisfying to watch him struggle like that, as he attempted to hold the quill in his teeth, then thought better of it as he brought the knife up to it. Clearly, the reason for so many quills was he'd gotten them sharpened by someone else- and only now with all the tips mangled did he have to attempted the finicky work of sharpening them by himself. Next he tried pinning it to the counter and cutting down, but the quill slipped from beneath his fingers, shifting and the shaft cracking rendering it useless for writing or sketching.

 

Now he actually swore, and tossed the ruined quill- which would have been ineffective, except he followed it with the knife, which pinned the feather to the wall. Frustration vented, he had enough control not to stomp to the wall and retrieve the knife. When he turned back to the counter however, he wished he could throw it again. For who was there but Altaïr, who was... sharpening the quills he'd had laid out in a row.

“You very nearly had it.” he tipped his hooded head. “How do you normally get it done?”

“... I have a novice sharpen them.”

“And here I am.”

Only Altaïr could make an acknowledgment of _lack_ of rank sound like a declaration of superiority. It had to be something innate in the bastard. Malik was self aware enough not to demand to be allowed to resume the task himself. Who knew when another brother who he hated less would pass through? He took the offered quill and inspected it. He was not going to thank him for such a simple task, however.

“Past time you made yourself actually useful.”

 

It would be foolish to even expect acknowledgment of the task, but it still rankled. He could have just kept watching until Malik had given up or managed to sharpen a quill- meanwhile, he had taken care of the task- even the spares- in less time than it had taken him to destroy one.

Altaïr watched Malik's fingers again, and saw a dark spot of red on the dusky brown- plainly the knife had slipped while Malik had attempted a two handed task. He was ignoring it- it was a tiny cut that wouldn't even hurt unless something got in it, and Altaïr realized Malik was also ignoring _him_.

It was really getting worn out.

 

The best thing to do would be something that could not be ignored. He caught Malik's wrist and before the dai could object, ran his tongue over the tiny cut with a broad, damp swipe of his tongue. He tasted of salt and faintly bitter ink, and Altaïr gave another lick, slowly, staring into his eyes in challenge. Malik's lips parted in surprise but he did not yank his hand free. There was a pause between the second lick and the third, as if waiting for another crimson drop to come. Fingers dragged over soft lips, the faint dip of a scar crossing it, the tips of his fingers disappearing between the teasing lips. He inhaled sharply between his teeth- a reaction and Altaïr was glad for it; he started to smile and pull away and found himself on his back on the counter, Malik's first two fingers hooked into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue. His shoulders ached from the force that had put him there, but he was more surprised than anything else.

“Your tongue” Malik hissed bearing down on him with his full weight. “Gets you in trouble again, novice.”

 

Altaïr disagreed, but could hardly say so with his mouth full of Malik's fingers. He might have been pinned, but his feet were already braced against the side of the counter- he had two free arms to Malik's one- which was occupied, even if his elbow was holding him down at the center of his gravity- and a knife he would never dream of using on his brother in one hand. Malik's breath hissed hotly by his ear, and lips on his neck, while he was held in place with the well placed arm. His tongue flexed against the fingers, and the knife dropped from his fingers to stick in the floor.

 

It wasn't something he'd expected to feel ever again. Losing his friend was part of the price he assumed he was paying for his sins of arrogance. It wasn't as if he hadn't paid for it; a lifetime's work to reach the rank and mastery- even if he'd achieved it young- stripped from him and dangled out of reach, tortured by it's existence, and yet denied his right. It was as if he had died- and yet was still held accountable for past mistakes. Accountable by damnable dark eyes, and abuse from a voice that had always tried to keep him from the heights of arrogance that resulted in his fall.

Not that it had worked, but he had tried, even after he had lost his temper with Altaïr's arrogance. If one was still accountable for one's mistakes even after dying for them, what was the point?

 

Altaïr waited to see what would happen next. He rather hoped that it would involve teeth, Malik taking advantage the brief dominance he'd achieved- some sign that he remembered the all too brief times they'd found pleasure in eachothers arm's and company before.

 

He kept his arms limp for now. There was hot breath on his neck at least and it sounded labored, as though Malik was having trouble controlling himself. 

 

“Why couldn't you have died?” the voice was rough as the cheek pressed against his throat. Now Altaïr tensed. He could have accepted violence, violation, but this sheer emotion was terrifying. Something wet touched his ear, scorching hot and heavier than it had any right to be, as the one armed assassin struggled to regain control. “If you had died I might have moved on from the loss of you both. I cannot even hate you properly, my infuriating brother, for you _do_ try. Even in your arrogance. _Bastard.”_ Another thick hot drop scorched his skin. He flinched from its' touch. 

Altaïr's hand flexed, uncertainly, then traced the tense muscle of Malik's arm. The two fingers still in his mouth dug in and he felt the tips of blunt nails. Malik did not want comfort or pity. He never did. Altaïr gabbed a hold of his wrist more firmly, thumbnail tracing along a tendon, but instead of digging in and forcing the hand away, the assassin dropped his hand back to the counter below him. Malik drew in a deep breath, and leaned back to look at him. Since he couldn't close his mouth, spit was collecting at the corners of his mouth.

“Submission does not suit you.” Malik frowned, and though his eyes were bright there was nothing to betray his momentary weakness, but dampness that clung to Altaïr's hood, and that could very well be his own drool. He stared up, meeting Malik's eyes, and waiting. He swallowed without thinking and felt the fingers still pressed into his mouth twitch. “Do _you_ hate _me_? To torment me like this?” he demanded and Altaïr closed his teeth as the fingers pressed harder- that hurt, damn it. Malik didn't seem to notice. “Do you think you have the _right_?”

He swallowed again, and shook his head, as much as he could.

Confused at the pliancy, Malik pulled his fingers free, leaving them resting slick and wet on Altaïr's faintly stubbled chin.

“What did you hope to accomplish?”

“I wanted you to look at me.” Altaïr admitted.

“There are times when I cannot take my eyes off the beautiful housefire that you are. An unsalvageable disaster that destroys anything unfortunate enough to get too close.”

“Then that is what I am? A disaster you can't avert.” He watched Malik's lip curl in frustration and moved to sit up and shake him off- only to be slammed back down with the strength of that one arm. His eyes widened in surprise, and a thumb dug into the softer underside of his chin, fingers closing hard enough to bruise. One armed he might be but there was strength in every fiber of Malik's body.

“I would stop it if I could, but you burn too brightly.”

“But you try.” There was a question there.

“Why couldn't you have _died_?!” He released him, giving Altaïr's head another shove against the counter, but he turned his back on the assassin. It was trust and dismissal. Altaïr refused to be dismissed, sitting up and pulling Malik against his chest. If it was easier for him not to look at him, perhaps Altaïr would stand that, for now. “I have never wanted your pity.”

“And you have never had it.” Altaïr rested his cheek on Malik's shoulder. “Compassion yes, but not pity.”

“'Compassion'?” spat Malik trying to shake the assassin off. “Like 'patience' 'restraint' and 'humility' I didn't think you knew what it meant.”

“You may wish me dead.” Altaïr said quietly. “But I am glad you are not. Even if you refuse to look at me.”

“But I do look.” Malik cursed himself. “so you have what you want from me. Let go.” Altaïr didn't And Malik's shoulders slumped. “I do not wish you dead, Altaïr. I did, briefly, and do wish that you had died then; but I do not wish for your death. You... are a brother. I do not know what I would have done, if I had lost you both.”

 

They had not been very close, Malik was a few years Altaïr's senior, though much of their training had taken place together, so for much of it, they had trained beside each other. Assassins were interchangeable, and sacrifice-able, but each brother was still unique and treasured as a brother. Altaïr's natural talent to the work had set him apart, whereas Malik's skills were hard earned. Had they not been held up against the golden bird that was Ibn- La'Ahad he would have been the prize of novices for his skill and diligence. But Altaïr's brilliance was greater, eclipsing all others, and he achieved the rank of Master Assassin at the boyish age of twenty one, leaving the other novices more years of hard work to achieve that rank. No one cared for the second place. That place was, of course, filled with the steady, strong and capable Malik. Anyone's ego would have flourished under such praise. Perhaps it was no wonder Altaïr grew to think that he was more clever than all of those before him- too strong and brilliant to follow The Creed.

 

“I have lost my brothers.” Altaïr said, faintly and wistfully, “Some to blades and some to my pride. And must earn them back.”

“At least you have the chance, novice. Not all are so blessed.”

“I would kill nine _hundred_ men if it would earn back another life.”

There was no question of what he meant. Malik shook him off, and this time, Altaïr released him. He remained perched on the counter, and remained still under the glare he was given.

“You would kill the world, if given the chance, to prove you _could._ ”

“No. I think I have proven I can kill without restraint.”  
“Certainly without caution.”

“Now I must learn to know better when.”

“Is it not when our master commands?”

“I wonder.”

Many would have called that question itself as treachery, but Malik only frowned slightly, as if inviting Altaïr's reasoning- which he chose not to share, instead finally looking away.

“Do you truly mourn for your brothers, not just the rank you lost?”

“I would be lying if I said that it did not sting.” he kept looking, staring at the pattern on the inkpot rather than met Malik's eyes. “And I would lie again, if I said I would be content to remain a novice if it would make things right.” A hand touched Altaïr's face, sliding up under his hood. The fingers clenched in his hair- barely long enough to grip- and turned his head with force. He met Malik's eyes. “But that does not mean I do not mourn the loss of my brothers more.”

“Fool.” Malik gave Altaïr's head a shake. “What drove you, fool novice?”

Altaïr did not have it in him to apologize for everything that he had done, but he could confess.

“I had to surpass you Malik. Because I knew I would never be your equal.”

Malik's fingers tightened in Altaïr's hair for a moment, staring in disbelief, but then he let go smoothing it, and smoothing Altaïr's hair, hood slipping back slowly and pooling around his shoulders.

“Idiot.” He closed the space between them and kissed him, hard. There was a catch of breath, lips parting before Altaïr kissed back hands coming up to hold Malik in place against his mouth, until they were both breathless. When the kiss ended with them gasping for breath, Malik pushed away to an arms length, and shook his head. There was desire there, but there was still too much bitterness and anger to pursue it. Sensing that this would get no further Altaïr righted his hood, shielding his eyes from sight, and hopped down, putting the counter between them again.

Separated by a seemingly inconsequential but uncrossable distance.

“Do you have anything else to say?”

“I don’t have the right to apologize, because that would be asking for forgiveness.”

“Someday, Altaïr.” Malik said “I hope that you can.”

“If I do, will you accept it?”

“We will see.”

 

Altaïr returned to the cushions, and settled himself. Malik returned to his work.

 

Neither looked at the other.

**Author's Note:**

> This would not turn to slash. Every time I thoguht they were ready to start, they veered off into emotional stuff.  
> which I like, but I was trying to write PWP.


End file.
